


Chevaliers

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Holmes and Watson are in some sort of situation for which the chances of survival are slim. They are silently sharing one last cigarette, and then one of them is just like "fuck it" and then they kiss and it's like, first kiss and last kiss and we're about to die and I never told you I love you but I do all rolled into one epic kiss. And then they go and face almost certain death together.</i> (<a href="community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/4996.html?thread=5761412#t5761412">prompt</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chevaliers

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Messieurs Holmes and Watson are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant inventions but public domain nowadays.

Smoke rises into the air, a thin wisp that curls and dances quickly and quietly to eventually disappear into the darkness above their heads. It's a fragile thing, dissolving as soon as the cold wind that blows in through the open window further along the wall comes their way, bringing with it the crisp cold scent of winter and the quiet sounds of half a dozen men lying in wait, guns cocked and ready for any movement at the end of the gallery.

The decayed gallery of the abandoned manor has been quiet for a good quarter of an hour now. A quarter of an hour can be enough for a number of things. It certainly has been plenty of time to do a quick survey of their surroundings; to hold a hushed conversation; to count the bullets they have left.

Plenty of time for them to deduce the most likely outcome of the situation.

The large settee Holmes and Watson are crouching behind, the only piece of furniture sturdy enough to provide cover from bullets, smells of mould. Watson can't see the colour of it in the orange glow of the cigarette between Holmes's lips but he is guessing that it’s a heinous shade of purple. It would be his luck to die behind a settee that is of some ghastly colour, or one that has a paisley pattern.

Yes, he decides. A paisley pattern on a purple background. It can't get much worse than that.

The rustle of clothing snaps him back into alertness but it is only Holmes handing over the cigarette. Watson takes it, feels his fingers brush Holmes's at the exchange, and for approximately ten seconds regrets every single thing he never had the time or the courage to say, from complimenting Mrs. Hudson's tea cakes and thanking Lestrade for sending a word when Holmes has taken off after blackguards on his own to telling Gladstone he's a good boy before they left and to— He stops. Regretting things wastes time they don't have. Watson lifts the butt to his own lips, fancies that he can taste Holmes mixed with nicotine and tar and other things that recent research says are unhealthy. Holmes, he muses vaguely with a mild touch of amusement bordering on hysteria, has definitely been bad for his health.

He relishes the sweet tang of the eastern tobacco - one of Holmes's souvenirs - and exhales slowly, licking his lips. "Quite the tight spot this time, old boy," he remarks quietly. "I reckon we won't make it back in time for breakfast." He is trying to stretch the minutes. Just a second or two more in each one, and perhaps... But no. Seconds can't turn into bullets or police officers come to their aid, and neither can he.

"I'm sorry I brought you along," Holmes murmurs quietly, his hand stealing into Watson's with accuracy that results from many a time spent together hiding in dark nooks and crannies, the movement perfected with practice whenever silence has been of the essence.

Watson knows that he is lying. Devastated, yes, but lying. Holmes isn't sorry that he brought Watson along; he is sorry that he miscalculated, that they are both going to die long before their time. He has never been sorry to bring Watson with him before and surely isn't about to start now. "It's alright," Watson whispers and means it. It is alright. He lets his thumb brush gently over the back of Holmes's hand to reassure him, just in case that there is a plan cooking up in that brilliant mind of his that involves Holmes wasting his remaining bullets while Watson makes a mad dash for the nearest exit. That sort of plan would, of course, be stillborn.

He would not go.

"Almost time," Holmes suddenly points out in an emotionless tone, withdrawing his hand.

Watson looks down to see that the cigarette he is dangling from his fingers has almost burned out. He can feel the heat of the cinders burning his skin. "Here," he says and places the butt somewhere near Holmes's face. The wind blows again, the orange tip flares, and he sees the unmistakable glint in Holmes's eye.

Holmes leans forward slowly, placing his lips around the butt and inhaling with an almost reverent expression before pulling back, small tendrils of smoke drifting out of the corners of his mouth. He plucks the burnt cigarette from Watson's suddenly nerveless fingers with ease and leans forward to place his lips unerringly against Watson's, coaxing them open with slow movements and a whisper.

And Watson gives in, parting his lips to welcome Holmes's tongue, the shared smoke, the sheer shock that runs hot and cold in his veins and has his heart beating wildly in his chest.

 _Finally, finally, finally_ , it says.

He sits heavily on his haunches and would be dangerously close to toppling backwards if not for Holmes's desperate hold on his coat, Holmes pulling him back against himself and balancing them with their lips still sliding soundlessly together, both unwilling to let go in fear that the world will end right then and there if they do. Watson drops down to his knees and gathers Holmes close, running his hands through the tangle of messy dark hair while his tongue catalogues the arches and valleys of Holmes's mouth, the taste behind his teeth and on his lower lip that is soft under Watson's urgent touch. Holmes lets out a sound that is not quite a moan but a whimper, and Watson closes his eyes tight to block out everything else but Holmes, concentrating on the feel of the lean body under his hands.

It's so much more than a kiss. It's a thousand apologies, one for the time Holmes spilled acidic chemicals on Watson's favourite waistcoat, and one for the time Watson accidentally disturbed Holmes's hives in the middle of winter; a thousand ‘thank you’s, one for the time Watson was ill and Holmes looked after him with single-minded determination, and one for the time Holmes convinced Lestrade that he did not see anything unusual happen at Baker Street in spite of the fact that he is an inspector and therefore has very keen eyes.

It's a thousand goodbyes, some of those that they will never be allowed to say simply because they never got that far. Watson will not stare deep into the depths of a watery hell and weep; Holmes will not see Watson off to war one more time with fear and resentment in his mind.

It's a yes, and a yes, and a yes, and it's forever.

They don't speak after they separate at last, breathing heavily and leaning against each other and the bullet hole ridden remains of the settee. Holmes is tracing Watson's features with a long-fingered hand, as if he is imprinting them in his memory. Watson tilts his head into Holmes's hand, turns to kiss the palm. He hears Holmes's breath hitch and lets his lips rest against the salty skin for a while. It isn't a promise because he dare not give one but it's a possibility. A minuscule chance. An _if_.

There is the distinct sound of footsteps down the hall and they are jerked back into the reality of their situation. Holmes straightens his coat and digs around in his pockets only to give an embarrassed cough when Watson sighs heavily and picks up Holmes's gun from where he flung it on the floor in frustration. They divide the few remaining bullets between them and load their guns in complete silence; the only sound is that of lead clicking into place as they crouch side by side.

The gallery is quiet but Watson thinks that he can sense the men in the darkness, breathing, waiting, watching them as they have watched for almost half an hour now, infinitely patient with the knowledge that their catch will be the great Sherlock Holmes. They won't have to wait for long now, not anymore. Watson feels at peace, knowing that it will all end right here by the hideous, purple, paisley-patterned settee that Holmes and he turned over and hid behind when they had nowhere else to go.

Holmes cocks his gun and casts one last glance at Watson in the darkness. He can't see it but he can feel it on his skin, as well as he can feel the warm, strong hand that grips his for a moment in a final farewell.

They rise.


End file.
